


Proof

by A_Beautiful_Irony



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Angst, Angst for days, Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical trigger warnings apply, Established Relationship, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, I promise, M/M, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Post-Prince’s Gambit, The Regent is in this so be warned, lots of feelings, much angst, plot contrivances
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-24
Updated: 2019-04-24
Packaged: 2019-07-16 06:22:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16080275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Beautiful_Irony/pseuds/A_Beautiful_Irony
Summary: Laurent is captured at Fortaine on the eve of battle - but instead of facing the dungeon, he finds Damen and himself forced back to court at the palace of Arles, to face the Regent’s twisted machinations. Standing before the Veretian Council, Laurent is presented with an impossible choice.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I am really proud of this story, but also really nervous. TRIGGER WARNING, as I delve pretty deep into some canon-typical subject matter here. I really hope you enjoy it!

Fortaine was a trap. 

Laurent thinks the words over and over in his head as he walks the long halls of that fort which he had so recently thought to capture. The stone-faced members of Guion’s personal guard trail Laurent on either side, escorting him in no uncertain terms toward their destination. Laurent glances at them sidelong as they go - ten overlarge soldiers to one unhappily unarmed young man. He bites back a scoff at the extravagance. He’s flattered, he supposes, but they really needn’t have bothered. It’s not like he has Damen with him for them to contend with this time. 

The thought of Damen claws at Laurent’s chest, and he squeezes his eyes shut for a moment against the swooping fear and regret. He does not have time to think of Damen right now. There is no time for those needling memories, for the warmth and deep longing, almost frightening in its strength, already beginning to pool unhelpfully in his gut. 

He forces it down. There are more pressing matters.

Damen isn’t here. 

If he had been, Laurent muses darkly, their party likely never would have run into Guion’s ambush. It should have been obvious - it should have been a victory. But Laurent, in all his arrogant fury, had played into his uncle’s hand one last time. 

Unused, now, to being without his giant Akielon strategist and one-man battalion, he had seen the ruse, taken it for the trap it was, and arrogantly, foolishly, tried to outplay it. They had been outmaneuvered and overrun within minutes. 

Laurent’s little retinue makes its way to the end of the passage and then, surprisingly, turns left at the fork instead of right - toward the upper floors and residences rather than, as might have been expected, down deep into the catacombs below. 

And a different fear creeps slowly into Laurent’s mind. He recognizes a half-forgotten pattern - Uncle’s displeasure, a long walk to a bedroom. An old, acutely familiar feeling of panic begins to scratch against the inside of Laurent’s skull as alarm bells long unrung suddenly begin to peal. 

As, for the first time since being captured, he is overtaken by the sudden, violent urge to run. 

His steps falter for only a moment, not long enough to be noticed by the guard. 

Damen might have noticed. 

Damen isn’t here.

Laurent holds his shoulders rigid, his throat tightening with every step as they walk through the personal residences of Fortaine - closed carved doors with beds behind every one, growing larger and more ornate the farther they go. 

They stop at the very end of the hall, two sets of double-doors before them like waiting jaws. Two soldiers step forward to push open the set on the right, and as they enter, Laurent breathes what he hopes is not an audible sigh of relief.

It is an audience chamber, not a bedroom, and his uncle is nowhere in sight. 

Guion, however, is very much in sight and is plenty unpleasant enough. He smiles at Laurent with enough malice to make Laurent’s defenses slam back into place like an iron wall. He bristles, regarding the Councilor coolly. 

His original fear may have been unrealistic, blown out of proportion by... past experiences, but Guion is still very much a threat. However, Laurent has little time to analyze all the potential motives, moves, and countermoves, because Guion cuts straight to the point. 

“My wayward little Prince,” he says sweetly, loud enough to be heard by the small assembled crowd - Guion’s family, several servants, and the lesser nobles of Fortaine, surrounded on all sides by even more superfluous guards - “Your dalliances at the border have come to an end. The Council has ordered you back to court. Your soldiers will follow in a few weeks. You will ready yourself to return home to Arles. Immediately.” 

 

*****

 

Laurent enters the throne room at Arles with as much arrogance as he can muster, alone as he is without Damen or even his trusted honor guard. The court is assembled in the boxes and balconies at the edges of the room, much like they were that day Laurent watched Damen beat Govart into submission in the Ring.

Now, the ring has been disassembled and is nowhere to be seen, but Laurent still comes up short as he makes his way toward the throne at the far end of the long room. Shock and horror flash violently across his face before he manages to suppress all expression through a tremendous force of will. 

A figure kneels before the Regent and Council, chained to the floor at the neck, wrists, and ankles. Not with gold cuffs and collar this time, but simple iron restraints. But there are those same gold chains still, almost incongruous, wrapped inelegantly about the prisoner’s muscular frame. A shuddering wave of nausea takes Laurent in its grip at the sight. 

Laurent recognizes that back. 

It has been a long time since Laurent has seen him like this, the flimsy silks, tiny rubies threaded through those dark curls.

Laurent feels his body go rigid. He is vaguely aware of an ache in his jaw from the sudden force with which he has clenched his teeth. A small, desperate part of him wants to scream. 

Damen. 

Damen looks at him sideways as Laurent approaches, legs numb and gait wooden, forcing himself forward. Laurent cannot stop staring at him. How did they get him out of Laurent’s apartments without his noticing? He had left him there just this morning… under no guard, as there is no one now left of Laurent’s faction at court. Not for the first time before his uncle, Laurent finds himself suddenly, profoundly alone. 

Except… 

His eyes slide from the Regent to Damianos once again. 

Is he hurt? There appear to be no obvious wounds, no brutal marks of violence marring that wide expanse of smooth, brown skin. Aside from those inflicted by Laurent, himself. 

Laurent is already slipping up. He knows the more he stares at Damen, the more he gives himself away. But he cannot help it. His uncle has always been able to find Laurent’s greatest fear to exploit. And exploit it he most certainly and effectively is doing. 

Damen meets his eyes. The look in his deep brown gaze is a study in severe, deadly annoyance. 

There is a bit in his mouth. 

For a moment, Laurent’s heart leaps into his throat, terrified of what his uncle may have told Damen about who ordered him into this position. 

But then Laurent catches a flash of relief and something else deep in Damen’s dark eyes that has him breathing unexpectedly easier. Somehow, Laurent knows that look. It says, “we will make them pay for this.”

Despite everything, an incongruous little thrill goes through Laurent, and slowly he turns to face the Council. The look he gives them could charitably be called ‘glacial.’ Herode shifts uncomfortably in his cushioned seat, and Laurent levels his gaze on that weak link, letting it rest there for a moment. Then he turns smoothly to glare daggers at his uncle. 

“What is this,” Laurent says flatly. 

“This, Nephew,” the Regent replies pointedly, as though speaking to a slow child. “Is your disciplinary hearing.” 

“Is it?” Laurent remarks mildly. “I seem to be having a lot of those, of late.” He tries not to take too much satisfaction in the way the Regent’s mouth twists. Laurent is sure his uncle would much prefer him flustered and groveling. But, Laurent thinks darkly, the night is still young. 

“You still do not see the seriousness of your situation,” the Regent says, shaking his head as though in frustration. “You take nothing seriously. I wish I could say that I am shocked, but unfortunately, Nephew, by this time I am not at all surprised.” 

“I can assure you that I take none of this lightly.” Laurent enunciates each word precisely, giving them a cutting edge. He takes a moment to stare each one of the councilmembers down as he does it. Herode opens his mouth as though to speak, glances at the Regent, and then closes it again with a torn expression. 

“Tell me, Uncle,” Laurent presses on into the silence. “When was your disciplinary hearing held after you chopped the head off that child? Did I miss it? Or isn’t anyone going to hold you accountable for your actions against Vere’s innocent?” 

A shocked whisper runs through the crowd like a jolt of lightning, echoing through the room. The Regent’s schooled expression gives nothing away. 

“What happened with the pet was an extremely unfortunate turn of events,” he says evenly, injecting an insultingly low level of false concern into his tone. “His treason came as quite a shock. I never suspected he would steal royal documents and attempt to sell them to our enemies. So dearly confused he was, he claimed to think that he was helping you, Nephew. I was almost moved to spare him, but alas, the punishment for treason is death. As you well know.” 

Laurent fights the rage threatening to break free onto his tongue savagely back into his throat. His blood seethes in his veins like poison. Damen, beside him, flinches noticeably, the chains rattling. Nicaise would not have tried to sell information that would have put Vere at risk. He was a child, with no contacts through which he might have even tried to broker such a deal.

His uncle tells lies, and children are dying for them. 

Laurent keeps secrets, and children die just the same. 

Laurent recalls the bloody mess of Nicaise’s head, tiny seed pearls still shining in those burnished auburn curls. He recalls Aimeric’s body, limp and lifeless, slumped over a letter. Three words stained red and black with the blood that seeped from his wrists and, steadily, onto the floor.

“Speaking of Vere’s innocent,” the Regent says. “What is the Council to make of your murdering Lord Touars, and massacring a battalion of Vere’s own soldiers?” 

“Considering Lord Touars expressed his explicit intent to see me dethroned and subsequently beheaded, I should think that my actions on the field at Hellay were more than understandable. In fact,” Laurent cocks his head to one side, briefly. “I should think you might have found it uncharacteristically charitable of me, Uncle. To be slain in battle is a far more honourable death than to be taken slowly apart and then hung on the Traitor’s Gate. Which is exactly what Lord Touars and his men were looking at, should they have actually managed to kill me or take me alive as a prisoner.” Laurent makes a regretful little tsking sound before continuing. 

“Seeing as they were all so dreadfully misinformed about my supposedly treasonous designs against Vere - although how Lord Touars managed to be persuaded that I could be plotting to destabilize my own country, and for what possible reason, is beyond my understanding - I might have been moved to spare them. But, of course, it is as you said, Uncle. The price for treason, alas, is death.” He turns his gaze then, shifting to the left. “Isn’t that right, Guion?” Laurent asks with a parody of innocence. “I seem to recall you being there at the battle of Hellay. Tell me, what did you think of all those honorable deaths while you were busy scurrying for the hills?” 

There is a charged silence. 

The gathered Veretians are humming with expectation, awaiting the Regent’s next move. Laurent wonders how his uncle was able to convince Lord Touars of his guilt so completely when he apparently had yet to manage it with the Council. Had his uncle really miscalculated so severely? If that is the case, then the Regent really must not have been expecting Laurent to pull through the battle for Ravenel in one piece. Perhaps the Patran reinforcements had thrown him for a loop, and Laurent had finally, truly won a hand against his uncle. 

“Guion tried to plead your case with Lord Touars,” the Regent says mildly. Only Laurent hears the careful restraint in his voice. “As soon as he was certain that he could not deviate the army’s course of action against you, he rode straight to Arles to warn myself and the Council of your peril.” 

“How noble of him,” Laurent drawls. “Guion,” he looks straight at the man, who smiles unconvincingly from his seat on the dais. “I truly shall never forget this.” 

Laurent appreciates the way Guion’s throat bobs as he swallows. Laurent continues.

“How fortunate for Vere that her allies in Patras were able to come to her Prince’s aid that day.”

“Quite,” Uncle says. “And how fortunate that her Prince is not yet proved a traitor himself.” 

Laurent is fully on guard in an instant. Whatever his uncle is plotting now, he is about to make his next move. 

Laurent remembers the frantic moment he and Damen had shared upon Laurent’s forced return to Ravenel, after his capture at Fortaine and before the long ride dragging them both back here to Arles. Laurent did not understand, at the time, why his uncle could possibly have wanted Damen brought back to court with him. He suspected that the Regent simply had not liked the idea of an obviously more than capable Akielon commander in charge of Vere’s most impenetrable fort. 

But then, why bring Damen back to court instead of simply attempting to execute him, or perhaps them both, on the spot?

In any case, the answer is moot. For whatever reason, the Regent had decided that he wanted Damen along for the ride. He had understood that, for some ridiculous reason, Damen would never leave Laurent to face an enemy alone. If he could throw himself in front of the hoards of snapping jaws in order to protect Laurent from harm, Damen would do it. 

Damen, his Captain. 

On the morning that Laurent had arrived at Ravenel’s front gates, surrounded by Guion’s men, Damen had ordered the gates of the great fortress lifted just enough to allow ten men on horseback to enter. They had done so, Laurent at their center, their swords drawn and pointed directly at that insouciant golden head. 

They had given Damen a choice: come with them and rejoin Laurent as his slave at court, or stay and attempt to guard his lonely fort from an incoming onslaught of Veretian forces, while Laurent returned to his uncle, alone. 

It wasn’t even a choice. 

Damen took one look at Laurent’s face, asking him wordlessly for his orders. If the rightful King of Akielos had known another way out of this mess, Laurent is sure he would have acted on it then. 

But he hadn't. 

And Laurent, try as he might, could think of no way to stop this from happening. Even if they had stayed and waited for Nikandros’ reinforcements, they would have gained nothing but a siege while his uncle worked the Council over until he had himself declared King in earnest. 

Laurent had given the barest of nods, and Damen had bowed his head and come with them back to Arles. Not before they had managed a brief - very brief - private moment, wherein Laurent had, with no other options left, told Damen of Nikandros’ advancing army. They had rushed a messenger out through the secret passage in Laurent’s chambers and on to the Akelion forces, by then not a day’s ride away. And another messenger had been hidden away on the far side of the fort, tasked with relaying a most uncomfortable message to the Veretian garrison of Ravenel, as soon as their Prince and his captors had gotten well and truly away:

“Trust the Akielons. Let them into the fort. Await the Prince’s orders.” 

It was a risk. Laurent could only hope, at this point, that it worked. He had no way of knowing even what the messengers thought of their tasks, for Guion’s soldiers had begun pounding on the door just as the secret passageway clicked shut, and Laurent had kissed Damen full on the mouth and groaned to cover the man’s retreat. Damen had been startled, but went along with the kiss willingly enough, huffing his amusement into Laurent’s mouth. They’d continued for a heartbeat or six even after the guards had broken the latch and spilled into the room.

Verisimilitude. 

“Your messenger,” Laurent says casually. “When he brought me your child whore’s head in a bag,” — several Councilmembers shift uncomfortably — “told me that you had declared yourself King in my absence. I must say, Uncle, that I was therefore a tad skeptical upon hearing your heartfelt request that I return to court and defend that which is mine by birthright.” 

A shiver of something dark runs unexpectedly through the Councilmembers assembled on the dais. 

Anger? Ah, yes. That explains it then. 

Laurent tries not to grin too wolfishly at this sudden new understanding. 

His uncle had tried. He had tried to claim the throne for himself, had ordered Nicaise beheaded on the pretext of treason, thinking it would tip the Council’s favor in his direction and away from Laurent’s. The messenger had said Nicaise had pled for Laurent. The Regent had had him killed for that. If the messenger had understood that fact, then he must have been sent to Ravenel before the Council had even made its decision. The Regent had been that certain of his victory. 

That was a rare thing. Uncle hardly ever miscalculates. 

Laurent looks again at the members of his council, charged with keeping the throne in trust until it might be passed to Laurent himself. 

Herode, Laurent realizes with a strange pang. Herode had held the line. 

But Uncle has still managed to convince the Council well enough of Laurent’s failings, since they have had him brought back here to essentially stand trial. 

With a cold, sinking feeling, Laurent realizes too why Damen was ordered brought back with him. Not simply to keep him out of use in any military action. Uncle had always intended Damianos’ use as a weapon against Laurent directly. 

It is exactly how it looks: Damen is the one being held hostage here, not Laurent. If the Regent can arrange to have them both killed, Laurent has no doubt that he will take the opportunity - but in the meantime, his uncle wishes to, in one move, both crush Laurent’s secret weapon, the one piece on the chessboard which the Regent could never predict, and break Laurent in two. 

Laurent can admit to himself the reality of the situation, as well as the simple finesse of his uncle’s plans. Give Laurent love, or fixation, or greed - give him something to cherish, something to hold onto more powerful than armies, more fragile than hope. And then shatter it utterly, and Laurent along with it. 

Losing Damen would crack open Laurent’s skull as surely as would the blow from any axe. 

Will the Regent tell Laurent now? Expose Damianos for who he is in front of the entire assembled court? Can Laurent pretend the shock he should be feeling in that case? Could that possibly save both their lives?

Or will the Regent watch the horror and realization fail to cross Laurent’s features, and know? Would he grin wide enough to split that treacherous face in half, and promptly turn them both out to the gallows and death for treason?

Laurent’s heart feels as though it will hammer its way out of his chest.

But apparently, nonsensically, the Regent has something else in mind.

“We have brought you here,” the Regent says, “to prove the slave’s worth to you. And for one final chance to humble yourself before the Council and accept punishment for your crimes of petty selfishness.” 

Laurent’s response is cold. 

“I have ridden to the border to do my duty, as you commanded. I seem to recall it was you who called me back prematurely. And now you wish to punish me for failing to fulfill the obligation that you, yourself forced me to abandon?”

“Yes, I have heard much about your time at the border,” the Regent sneers. “What lovely, treasonous rumors you have been spreading about me. Six months ago, when you flayed your slave half to death, and the Akielon peace treaty along with it, you claimed I was wrong to chastise you. Now you claim I am responsible for everything from Vaskian raiders to Veretian mountain thieves.” He pauses to let a swell of disbelieving chuckles roll over the courtiers. “But then, you have always been very good at lying about me, Nephew. You have honed your skill in that field from the time you were thirteen.”

Laurent’s face drains of blood. Those words, and the thousand twisting images they conjure up, swarm his mind like a cloud of black flies. His skin crawls with them. He sways on his feet before catching himself, wiping his expression clean of any emotion. The effect is imperfect. 

He can feel Damen’s eyes on him, straining the limits of the chain around his neck, his body radiating concern. Laurent does not look at him. He watches his uncle.

“Meanwhile,” the Regent continues. “You wage war against your own countrymen on the field, and go traipsing across rooftops at midnight with your bedslave. In all of this, Nephew, there is nothing that I would call ‘doing your duty.’” 

“Now we are both telling wild tales,” Laurent whispers. “I can assure you, whatever rumors you have heard are false.” 

The Regent scoffs. 

“Oh, I have heard more than that from the front. We have all heard how you take the Akielon to your bed. And after you did protest so prettily the idea to the Council just the last time we were here. My sources tell me that you prefer to spread while he bends you over and mounts. I do find that difficult to believe, if only considering the barbarian’s size, and the fact that you somehow managed to walk into this room today. I can only hope he rides you more kindly than you rode your brother’s gelding.”

Laurent’s jaw clenches, teeth coming together with a click. Something flares deep and hateful in his eyes.

“I can assure you, Uncle.” Mocking. “Your concern is not necessary.”

The Regent lifts his hands as though this news makes little difference. 

Here it comes. The moment when his uncle will call them out. Reveal Damianos’s identity and end this charade once and for all. 

He can almost hear the words, see Uncle’s sad little shake of the head. ‘Oh, Laurent. The Crown Prince of Vere, to have knowingly spread his legs for his brother’s killer. What would Auguste say?’ 

And it would be true.

It would all be true.

But Uncle does not drop the axe. He sighs instead, and Laurent realizes with a jolt that he is nowhere near the end of being played with. Like a feral cat, the Regent will drag this out as long as possible before deining to deliver Laurent into the waiting hands of his executioner.

“In that case, you will have no trouble proving it to the Council,” the Regent says with a strange note of finality. 

Laurent’s answering smirk holds no mirth. He spreads his hands wide in a mirroring gesture, his tone that of a man who does not fail to see the irony of his situation.

“I am at your command.”

The Regent’s smile is not kind.

“You will be pleased to hear that your wishes for a war with Akielos have finally come true.” Laurent feels Damen stiffen beside him at those words. “The alliance is deteriorating with alarming speed, and the borders are growing more dangerous by the day. So you see, child,” sadly, indulgently. “I did have my own reasons for calling you back here, selfish as they may be. Even as poisonous as you are, I could not allow my only nephew to be killed in a paltry border skirmish.”

“How very generous of you, Uncle,” Laurent drawls. “However shall I repay such a grave slight to both my skills as a swordsman and my honor as a commander?”

The Regent’s mouth twists.

“You have no honor, Laurent. I know you are ungrateful. But the Council will have you prove yourself now. With the dissolution of the treaty, we have no more use for the Akielon slave. Unless you can prove that he has some kind of intrinsic value to you, he will be disposed of tonight.”

All the air goes out of the room. Damen has gone very still. Laurent, shocked, suppressing fear and rage, cannot help the incredulous tone of his voice. 

“He has saved my life numerous times,” he says. “Is that not enough to be considered intrinsically valuable?” 

“Ah yes,” Uncle replies sarcastically. “Like the incident wherein those Akielon assassins supposedly came after him in your chambers? He must be very safe to be around. Or was that also my doing?” 

Laurent pushes the words through tight lips.

“He has proven himself on the battlefield. Repeatedly and without fail. That should be more than enough to validate his worth.”

“I see that you have removed his slave collar, and one of the cuffs,” the Regent remarks mildly. “Or did the brute finally tear them off with his bare hands?” 

“I had them removed.”

“Really?” A cock of the head. “Why?”

Laurent measures his words carefully before responding. 

“I found them distasteful. As I have said, he has saved my life on multiple occasions. I felt the restraints a dishonor to his proven loyalty. He has more than proven his worth to me. I see no reason why that should not convince the Council of the same.” 

There is a heavy pause. Laurent and the Regent stare each other down in the silence, a war of wills. After a time, the Regent leans back in his throne, his manner suddenly, disconcertingly casual.

“Fine,” he says. “His worth, such as it is, is proven. Now prove yours. Mount the slave.” 

Laurent’s mind jarrs. He feels dizzy as the world shifts.

“Mount the slave,” Laurent repeats. 

“From the moment you inherited your brother’s title, you have proven yourself to be serpentine and honorless at every turn. I can think of no other way to make clear to you the seriousness of your actions. The Council and myself need stronger proof of your extremely doubtful loyalty.” Laurent feels very cold. The Regent’s diatribe barely registers. “Debase yourself before the Council and prove that you are not entirely ruled by your own selfish interests. Obey them in this, and we will believe that you may, in fact, be able to swallow your pride and your duplicitous nature long enough to actually learn a lesson.” 

Laurent looks at no one in particular when he responds. 

“You would have me fuck the slave for your pleasure,” he says. 

Slave. The word sticks in his mind, an insurmountable obstacle, almost nonsensical. Damianos is no slave. 

Damen. 

Distantly, Laurent notices Councilor Herode squirm and look away. The Regent is speaking. 

“I take no pleasure in this, Laurent,” he says, almost comical in his false remorse. 

Laurent snorts, an ugly sound. He raises his eyes once again to meet his uncle’s across the dais.

“No,” he says. “I suppose you couldn’t, could you? Considering that neither myself nor the slave is a hairless, prepubescent child. I cannot imagine you will even enjoy listening. How unfortunate for you that both of our voices have already broken.”

The Regent shakes his head.

“If I enjoy anything at all, it will be only that you have finally done as your country demands for once in your life.”

“My country demands I fuck the Akielon slave?” Laurent’s open disbelief borders on amusement. 

The ludicrousness of the concept is too much, a fact which is apparently not lost on the court - the telltale sounds of laughter bubble up from the gathered crowd, quickly quelled by a single gesture of the Regent’s hand. He glares at Laurent. 

“Your country demands you prove that anything in this world is more important to you than your obsession with defying me,” he says, somehow managing to sound like a frustrated parental figure rather than a man hungry for the humiliation and untimely death of his only remaining relative. 

Laurent’s answering sneer is vicious.

“Shall we announce the wedding after the fact, seeing as we have the entire Council so conveniently assembled to witness the consummation?”

“Do not be crude, Nephew.”

“Crude? The Council would have their Crown Prince, heir to the throne of Vere, get down on his knees in his own throne room, and perform like a simpering pet before half of his court. And you call me crude? My own uncle demands that I fuck a man for the pleasure of an audience like a common whore.”

“But you are a common whore, Laurent,” the Regent says. 

Something shatters inside Laurent then, something he had not thought could possibly still break. His cheeks burn. He blinks. 

Damen, by his side, lurches toward the Regent, making the chains groan and bite into his skin. Several Councilmembers recoil from him, and Laurent is abruptly reminded of Uncle’s first threat, Damianos being put to the sword. 

“Stop,” he whispers, gesturing numbly toward the enraged form of his erstwhile lover. Then, louder, “Stop.” 

After a long moment, Damen does. He collapses back onto the floor, panting, his eyes flashing, a murderous gaze fixed solely on the Regent. 

Laurent cannot breathe. He has the illogical urge to shield Damen bodily from his uncle, but he cannot move, can barely hold himself upright. He fights the tremors that threaten to run rampant over his body. He does not look at Damen. 

“We are all growing tired of this, Nephew,” his uncle sighs. “Either you prove the slave’s worth and your obedience to this Council, or you do not. He is obviously too aggressive to be allowed free reign on your good faith alone. You may have one chance to change my mind and that of the Council. Mount the slave, and he will stay on with you at court. Otherwise he will be executed, and you will return to the border tomorrow, alone.”

Laurent cannot seem to catch his breath. His mind keeps skipping over the inevitable, returning to the point where everything suddenly stopped making sense. 

Mount the slave.

Damen. Fuck Damen for an audience.

How could Laurent do that? How could anyone ask such an outrageous thing of him? Of either of them? They are Kings, they are the rightful heirs to their thrones.

Mount the slave? Damianos? In front of Uncle? 

No part of that concept makes sense. 

The throne room is charged with a sick anticipation. Laurent can feel the bloodlust rolling off the gathered courtiers in waves. They are practically salivating for a show.

Make love to Damen. Here. For Uncle’s pleasure. 

Let Damen inside of him while Uncle watches from Laurent’s throne. 

Bile rises in Laurent’s throat. He does not meet Damen’s eyes. He cannot. Instead, he stares at a spot on the far wall, his blue eyes glazed over and dull. From an outside perspective, he must look furious and resigned. To Damen, he probably looks exactly how he feels - dazed. 

After what feels like many minutes, Laurent finally murmurs, his words for the Council alone,

“I am not the one who does the mounting.”

Damen jerks in surprise, straining his bonds in an attempt to look at Laurent. 

A wave of scandalized, delighted comment rips through the crowd. Then everything starts moving very quickly. Servants and guards rush to set the stage, as it were, their movements perfunctory and impersonal now the conclusion is foregone. Laurent barely sees them. He stands stock-still in the middle of carefully orchestrated chaos.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning

One of the Regent’s men comes forward to begin unlocking the chains from around Damen’s neck, arms, and legs. Damen remains there for a moment, testing his stiff joints. His hands are still manacled together in front of him, if no longer locked to the iron ring in the floor, and he rests his weight on his forearms. 

As though in a trance, Laurent kneels before him, placing pale fingertips against his olive cheek, lifting Damen’s gaze to his own. Laurent reaches behind Damen’s head to remove the bit from his mouth with gentle, trembling hands. Damen’s eyes water at the release.

“Laurent,” he murmurs, too quiet to carry, too desperate to quell. Laurent merely shakes his head, staring mutley into space. Damen’s face crumples in a show of desperate worry. 

Wordlessly, Laurent takes Damen’s hand in one of his own, the other still caressing Damen’s cheek. Laurent stands slowly, coaxing Damen to follow. Turning to face the Council, Damen angles his body in front of Laurent, as though by partially blocking their view of that golden head, he can possibly protect Laurent even a little from what comes next. 

A final guard steps forward with a key to unlock the manacles from around Damen’s wrists, backing away quickly once it is done. Damen rubs at the soreness, examining the slight bruising, then lets them fall to his sides. 

The back of his hand brushes against Laurent’s as preparations continue around them. Laurent flinches, then stills, his body going unnervingly blank and pliant.

Laurent sways. Damen’s body vibrates with a concern akin to panic. 

Damen is frightened. And furious. He glances at Laurent again and again, helplessly, caught between keeping his eyes on the threat before them, and needing desperately to know that Laurent is alright. 

Damen opens his mouth to speak, but finds his throat too tight and mouth too dry to make a sound. 

They are provided with oil, but little else. A thick carpet is rolled out before the dais for the pretext of aiding their comfort there, on the floor. It is soft velvet, with an intricate pattern of riderless horses and weaponry interspersed with crimson pomegranates and roses. It will help avoid rug burn at least, Damen thinks, and the words ring slightly hysterical in his own head. 

Somehow none of this makes any sense. 

They have shared only one night together. One night and one morning. And yet the experience left Damen changed - to have experienced something so desperately intimate, sweetly giving, so utterly right. It changed him. With Laurent, in that quiet room at Ravenel, Damen found something he never had before with any partner - meaning. It wasn’t just sex. They made love, and it meant everything. Laurent meant everything.

And now this?

The servants leave. The guards rearrange themselves more comfortably against the wall. 

And then the crowd is waiting and there is nothing else to do. Laurent stares at the carpet, his eyes feverishly bright and very wide. His breathing comes quick and shallow through bloodless lips. His face is absolutely white. 

Damen’s chest hurts. His hands ache with the restrained need to touch Laurent, to comfort him in some way, and his legs keep tensing with the primal urge to grab Laurent and run. 

“Strip,” the Regent orders calmly, and Damen sees Laurent’s pupils contract and expand like a spasm. Damen wants to wrap his hands around the Regent’s throat and squeeze. 

Damen strips first, staring at Laurent the entire time. Laurent, for his part, appears nearly catatonic. His eyes are fixed, unblinking, to a spot somewhere in the middle distance, as though he were looking through the walls into someplace else entirely. 

Naked, Damen takes a tentative step toward Laurent. The crowd titters in exaggerated alarm. As though any one of them gives a single faked fuck about the wellbeing of their Prince. 

Finally, Damen forces his voice to unlock. 

“Laurent,” he murmurs gently. “Laurent.” 

Laurent flinches again, this time bodily away from Damen’s nude form. His head ducks down as though to hide his face in his shoulder. Heart in his throat, Damen waits. 

Eventually, Laurent’s gaze tears itself from the floor to meet Damen’s own. Laurent’s blue eyes are huge and black with pupil, but he appears more or less alert, focused on Damen now, in the present. 

“Laurent,” Damen says again, even quieter. He swallows. “I will not do this unless you are certain.” He says it in Akielon. 

“Then you will die.” Laurent’s reply, also in Akielon, is hard. Strained. 

“Yes.” 

The concept swirls at the back of Damen’s mind, elusive even as he understands it as absolute truth. Laurent’s hands clench spasmodically into white-knuckled fists. He looks as though he wants desperately to tear his eyes from Damen’s, and can’t. 

“No,” Laurent says. Orders. 

Pleads? 

Damen’s eyes close as though in pain. 

“Are you sure?”

“Yes,” Laurent whispers. 

Eyes still closed, voice coming in a hoarse rasp, Damen says, “Alright.” 

Damen takes Laurent’s hand, leading him down onto the plush carpet with all the careful gentleness he can muster. Laurent follows his direction, his movements waxy, almost doll-like. Damen feels bile rise in his throat at the sight. Neither their first night, nor their glorious first morning had been like this - Laurent may have been tense, but this is something else entirely. This is wrong on a basic level, in every way Damen can imagine. He holds Laurent’s hand tighter, helpless. 

Slowly, whispering small, distracting words of comfort, Damen lays Laurent gently on his back and undresses him, loosening each of the many laces one by one. They seem to take a long time. Laurent allows his jacket to be parted, his boots and pants to be removed, his fine white shirt to be lifted over his head and off, leaving him bare. He shivers. Damen folds each of the articles of clothing and places them to the side of their makeshift pallet. All the while, he is talking, warning Laurent of each move before he makes it, trying to keep Laurent’s attention focused on him alone. Trying to spare Laurent whatever humiliation he can. 

Damen loves him. He cannot help it. 

Once they are both naked, he takes the oil in hand. Pouring nearly half the bottle into his palm, Damen waits for Laurent’s signal. He can do nothing else. After a stretched moment, Laurent nods. Damen swallows. Returns the nod. Then he shifts forward on his knees and begins. 

Laurent is so tight and frightened, it almost doesn’t work. Damen watches Laurent’s pale face, his heart constricting at every tiny shift in his features, terrified of hurting him. He looks again at the bottle of oil and feels sick. 

“Laurent,” he says, almost pleading. Laurent’s features do not change. 

“Just do it,” Laurent orders, staring sightlessly into the center of Damen’s chest. Panic seizes Damen as he realizes that Laurent fully expects Damen to take him like this - forcing his way inside, the oil making possible each hard, traumatizing push. That Laurent is demanding it. Damen’s heart speeds to a cacophonous blur and he nearly pulls out altogether. 

He will not do this thing. If it is a choice between death and rape, then he would rather die. 

Perhaps sensing this, Laurent surges forward to grab Damen’s arm with bruising strength, slender fingers digging into the dark skin of his bicep. 

“Damen,” Laurent hisses, soft and panicked. 

“You do not want this,” Damen whispers. The fingers on his arm tighten.

“I want this more than I want you dead.” 

“I don’t.” 

Laurent’s eyes go wide at the infinite sadness, the infinite truth in Damen’s voice.

“Damen—.”

“What is the problem,” the Regent’s ugly voice booms out across them suddenly, like a slap. “Can the slave not perform? I thought you said he was useful.”

This time Damen does pull out. He turns his face to that hateful man on the dais, opening his mouth to speak, but Laurent stops him with a hand in his curls, wrenching downward until Damen’s head is lowered again, his ear pressed against Laurent’s lips. Damen expects a threat, but — 

“Don’t leave me,” Laurent whispers. There is a strange edge to his voice, and Damen realizes with a painful jolt of his heart that the words are choked with the threat of tears. “I won’t lose you too. I won’t lose you. I—.” He cuts himself off, lips pressed together so hard they turn white. 

“Shh,” Damen murmurs, unable to stop the sound, or the comforting way his hand moves to the small of Laurent’s back. Laurent’s eyes close tight, and he turns his face into Damen’s neck. Damen shushes him again, softer, moving his hand in small, slow circles. He wants to press a kiss to Laurent’s scalp. He can smell his hair. 

“There is no problem,” Damen murmurs then, barely loud enough to be heard on the dais. 

“Well?” Not the Regent’s voice, but Guion’s this time. Damen’s hand clenches into a fist against Laurent’s spine, then loosens again, continuing its slow pattern. 

“Are you sure,” Damen whispers resignedly into golden hair. 

“Yes,” Laurent replies with a ghost of his usual cool tone.

“If you need me to stop—.”

“Do not make me say it again. Please.” 

Damen closes his eyes for a moment against the pain beating behind them. 

“Laurent,” he breathes, just to say his name, because he cannot say ‘I love you.’ Will he ever get the chance? 

Damen lays Laurent back down, reaching again for the oil. He watches Laurent’s face, careful again for any signs of pain as he curls one, then two fingers gently inside. Laurent’s eyes go unfocused, but otherwise he does not react. Damen closes his eyes, feeling Laurent’s fluttering heartbeat in his fingers, fast and uneven like a caged bird. Damen wishes desperately that there were something he could do to protect Laurent, to take him away from all of this until it is finished.

A sudden idea hits Damen like a blow to the head. 

“Laurent,” he murmurs, feeling off-kilter, slightly deranged. He says it again, close to his lover’s ear. “Laurent.” Damen’s hand is supporting Laurent’s back as he half-sits, half-leans over the smaller man, crouched between his pale thighs. Laurent’s eyes snap back to focus on his face. 

Good. 

“Remember Nesson-Eloy?” Damen says.

Laurent blinks, breath hitching as Damen’s fingers, barely inside him, go still. 

“Point?” Laurent whispers, a shadow of his usual scathing tone. 

“What would you have done, in the inn, if the soldiers had not interrupted us,” Damen babbles, desperation creeping into his voice. He remembers the Laurent of the Inn, the perfect haughty pet dripping with sapphires. His playacting the perfect disguise and distraction from the very real danger they had been in. The danger Laurent, Damen now knows, had lived in constantly for almost half his life. 

“I would have slept in the bed,” Laurent husks. “You would have slept on the floor. We would have woken in the morning, gone back to camp, and not spoken a word of it.” 

Complete sentences. That is good. Damen tries again.

“What if there had been no private bath?” He says. “If we had been forced to share the common baths with the other patrons - what would you have done then?” 

Laurent’s eyes refocus for a moment, and then, amazingly, he lets out a slow, incredulous huff that might be laughter. His cheeks flush with their first bloom of color since entering this room. Hours ago? Minutes? 

“I would have had to continue the ruse,” he replies, almost musing. 

“It would have to be convincing,” Damen agrees, the first hint of a relieved smile crossing his face, despite himself. “Verisimilitude.”

“Of course,” Laurent says quietly. “I was very expensive, if you’ll recall.” 

Damen watches him closely, telegraphing his intentions for one breathless moment before again adding pressure, his fingers moving deeper than he would have expected possible, before a hiss of breath from Laurent makes him freeze. There is a pause. Damen’s stomach swoops at the sight of Laurent’s face. 

Laurent’s eyes are still huge and dark, but sharper, clear, and showing the first signs of a fundamental switch. His cheeks are flushed suddenly, yellow hair half falling over his cheekbones and into his eyes. It is not abandoned ardour by any means, not even his usual, restrained responses to pleasure. But it is a tiny shift, a relaxing of the terrified guarding walls. Laurent is letting Damen in, if only into this strange, shared half-memory, this imaginary place of safety. 

Laurent is still barely half-hard, his cock lying forlornly against a smooth, pale thigh. Damen wants to take it in his mouth, bring him to full hardness and hear Laurent’s stifled sounds of pleasure, but he is afraid of leaving Laurent without the wall of his body to block the Council and the rest of the room from view. So instead he continues whispering sweet nothings and filth into Laurent’s ear, lips against skin, hoping to cajole Laurent into some game, some pretext of exhibitionism that he might lose himself in. Some way to help Laurent distance himself from the reality of their situation.

“Should I take you like this, before the eyes of all those poor, unsuspecting commoners,” Damen whispers into Laurent’s ear, careful to block out any view of their actual onlookers with his neck and shoulder. Laurent shivers infinitesimally. “None of them can afford you. You said they would be jealous.” 

“Yes.” Laurent’s voice is tight, with fear or arousal, Damen cannot be sure. He tries another tack. 

“Would you undress me?”

“You’re already naked,” Laurent growls. His eyes are closed.

“If I wasn’t,” Damen says. “What would you do then?” 

The slow push into Laurent’s body is easing, inch by careful inch. Damen applies more oil and redoubles his effort of distraction. 

“Would you attack my jacket first? Or would you opt for the most shocking thing, go straight for the laces of those ridiculous Veretian pants, and take my cock into your hand?” The word is a gamble, but it has its intended effect. Laurent’s breath hitches again and he loosens, considerably. Damen hides a sigh of relief. 

“Would I do such a thing?” Laurent sounds a little breathless now.

“You were very aggressive,” Damen hums, nuzzling slightly at Laurent’s jaw. 

“Probably the jacket then,” Laurent says, and it is almost his normal voice, sardonic. But very quiet.

“Really?”

“Give them a show. I’m very expensive, after all. I couldn’t risk tarnishing my spotless reputation with a less than impressive performance.” 

Damen almost chuckles. A bubble of real happiness threatens to rise in his gut, but this moment is fragile, and requires his constant attention to maintain. 

“Would you let me undress you,” Damen murmurs. 

“No,” Laurent says. “I’d leave you there, waiting, while I went into another room to strip. I’d come back in a bathing shift, and you’d be disappointed.” 

Damen is vaguely familiar with the Veretian bathing traditions of the upper class, never deining to be fully naked themselves in public, not like the easy unselfconsciousness of Akielos. He would be a little disappointed. 

“You’d have to let me wash your hair,” Damen says, a slight smile playing about his lips at the thought. He brushes a hand experimentally over the nape of Laurent’s neck, feeling the silken yellow strands, imagining their weight when dripping wet and warm. 

“I’d wash yours in retaliation,” Laurent is saying. “I’ve never done something like that before.” 

It is suddenly all too personal, too close and too real for Damen. The Veretian Council, headed by the most cruel and spiteful man Damen has ever known, is watching their every exchange, even if he cannot possibly hear their words. Laurent would never forgive him if he were to stop now, sparing Laurent but ensuring his own death. Damen knows now that is not an option, if only because he cannot bear to leave Laurent to face such a future alone. 

He can only hope that this half-hearted fantasy will allow Laurent to dissociate long enough to come for the Council. That the experience will not do more harm than good to Laurent’s psyche.

But he can’t bear to give the Regent this - their personal murmurings, their little, intimate happinesses. All of Laurent’s subtle, sweet hesitancies. 

One way or another, Damen must finish this, and he must do it quickly. He must protect Laurent that much, at least. 

“What would you do if I pulled you close,” Damen asks, holding Laurent’s body tighter against his chest. Laurent’s breathing goes uneven, a breath pushed out of him by the contact. 

“I might straddle you,” he whispers, his hips canting forward just slightly with the press of Damen’s fingers. “But I wouldn’t let you touch me. I’d take you in hand.” 

Damen’s eyes widen. Laurent is looking at him with dark eyes, hooded and heavily fringed with golden lashes. Helplessly, Damen holds his gaze.

“The people would stare,” Laurent whispers. “I wouldn’t even glance at them. I’d watch your face. You would want to come. But I wouldn’t let you. Just as you started to buck, I’d stand up and leave you there, in the water.”

Damen starts at a sudden brush of sensation, Laurent’s fingertips just barely grazing the side of his cock. Laurent’s expression is torn, caught between a heady, desperate longing, and a very real understanding of what, exactly, they are doing. 

Damen is not yet fully hard, but the whispered words seem to be doing the trick for Laurent. His cock now stands erect, flushed pink and warm against Damen’s abdomen. Laurent’s fingers do not stop, moving slowly in light, hesitant strokes along the shaft, the underside of the head. Despite everything, Damen feels himself beginning to rouse under the attention. Laurent’s other hand is now on his shoulder, and Damen tilts his head to kiss it briefly before leaning in to trace his nose along Laurent’s neck. 

“Should I take you then,” Damen says against Laurent’s skin, mouthing at the juncture between throat and jaw. A tiny tremor runs through Laurent, quickly suppressed. “When we’re both clean and you’ve driven me half mad, should I follow you out of the bath, press you against the wall in your ridiculous shift, and take my revenge?” 

Laurent does not answer, only shudders against Damen’s body, his eyes closing once again. 

“Do you want it,” Damen whispers, nearly a growl, and punctuates his question with a third finger, crooking them deep inside. Laurent gasps softly. 

“The bed,” Laurent pushes through his teeth, hips tilting forward, just a little, to press Damen further. “Take me back to our room.” 

Laurent’s hand on Damen’s cock is moving faster now, drawing him forward, and he lays Laurent down on the thick carpet, facing him. Damen’s fingers move in and out, deep and slow, scissoring once.

“Damen,” Laurent breathes. 

“Are you ready?”

Laurent’s eyes fly open, gazing at Damen with a look he cannot begin to decipher. Laurent has played at being a pet, but Damen knows his actions so far have been tempered by a need to be kind, to let Damen know that this isn’t his fault - that he needs him. That he knows. 

“Yes.” A whisper. 

Damen closes his eyes. Opens them. 

He settles himself more firmly between Laurent’s thighs, removing his fingers and reaching again for the small bottle beside them, but Laurent takes it from him. Emptying the last of the oil over his own fingers, he reaches again for Damen. Damen’s heart stutters at the first, gentle touch, and he lets his head fall forward as he repositions himself above Laurent. 

Damen has one hand cupped to Laurent’s face, a thumb along his jaw, fingers in the soft hair behind his ear, the other hand braced against the floor, taking most of his weight. They are breathing each other’s air. 

The first push inside has Laurent’s breath catch in his throat, a tiny cry escaping his lips. Damen stops a moment, letting him adjust, and feels Laurent’s trembling, overheated skin against his own. 

Then Damen begins moving, slowly. Laurent clutches his forearm, bringing his hips up to meet Damen’s in the beginning of a gentle rhythm. Damen brushes a strand of golden hair from his flushed face. 

The emotion and the repression must be too much for Laurent, because he begins to make reluctant little noises, tiny hitches of breath, and Damen wishes he could take pleasure in them. 

Damen takes Laurent in his arms, pressing them chest to chest, Laurent’s cock rubbing rhythmically against the hard muscles of Damen’s stomach. Laurent wraps his arms around Damen’s back, dragging the pads of his fingers down Damen’s shoulders. 

They make very little noise. Damen ends up cradling Laurent more than once, kissing away the tears riding high on Laurent’s cheeks before the Council or the Regent can see them. They hold each other incredibly close as their bodies come together again and again. 

They are both panting quietly now, high color blossoming along Laurent’s cheekbones. His eyes are closed, arms tight around Damen’s neck, and Damen bends over him, their faces separated by a breath. Pleasure courses through Damen’s veins, coiling in his muscles and pooling hotly in the pit of his stomach. Their thrusts are not rough or hard, but they are very deep. Laurent clenches around him briefly, and Damen bites off a moan. 

‘Laurent,” he breathes. Laurent merely opens his eyes in response, gazing at Damen.

When he can sense that Laurent is close, Damen changes the angle to something even deeper, ramming the head of his cock into that spot that he knows makes Laurent see stars. Again and again he thrusts forward in a steady, unceasing rhythm. Laurent makes a small, helpless sound in the back of his throat, and his breathing goes quietly wrecked. Damen’s does too. They stare into one another’s eyes as though drowning, clinging to one another. 

When Damen rocks into him slightly harder, a final time, Laurent lets out an aborted cry that might be Damen’s name, and comes, spilling with his cock pressed against Damen’s stomach. Damen hasn’t touched Laurent’s cock with his hands, keeping them on his face, his shoulders, his back, keeping him grounded and focused and safe. 

As he comes, Laurent’s cheeks flush scarlet, his eyes tearing up again with shame, and Damen has to kiss him. He swallows the tiny sound Laurent makes, denying the crowd of vultures that much. He wants to preserve as much of Laurent’s pride, protect as many of the - very few - sacred things of Laurent’s as he can. He will not give them this, the sounds they share with one another in their most private, intimate moments. 

He will not let them take that, too, from the man he loves. 

And so Damen kisses him, and, surprised, Laurent kisses back. Completely overwhelmed, he kisses Damen honestly, wrapping his arms tighter around his neck as Damen thrusts once, twice more, and then follows him over the edge. Damen, usually so vocal, makes very little noise as he spills into Laurent’s body, any words he might have said subsumed and communicated through the kissing, the touch of tongues, the shared breaths. His orgasm is short, but the kissing seems to go on for a long time. 

As they come down, come back to their senses and their situation, they part. Damen finds a towel provided for them, folded near where the bottle of oil had been, and wipes Laurent gently down with it. He pulls off of Laurent and helps him to stand, then to dress. When Laurent is looking as close to his usual perfect polish as he is likely to be able to get, Damen steps away and quickly dons his own, grudgingly familiar slave garments. Laurent does not like to see him in them. 

Then Laurent looks up to his uncle. 

The entire audience chamber appears somewhat stunned. This was, evidently, not the performance they were expecting. 

They wanted a rough mounting, the domination of their haughty Crown Prince by his barbarian bedslave. That fabled, elusive royal cock on display at long last. They wanted to hear it, his lewdest cries and mewls, his face crushed into the carpet. That was what they wanted. 

Not this. 

Not what this damnably, obviously was. 

The kiss was a mistake. It gave away too much, and now everyone knows. It was all too close, too much, but they made love like men, not slaves. 

Laurent feels his heart as though it were outside of his chest, his greatest weakness exposed. Damen, his heart. 

Speaking of Damen, he has placed himself so that he is once again standing half in front of Laurent before the Council on the dais. He stands and stares at the Regent, no slave to the Regent’s whims while he dares threaten Laurent.

And it is in that moment, when Laurent finally looks at his uncle in the aftermath of this act, that he realizes the Regent never expected Laurent would actually do it. 

He appears stunned and enraged, a far cry from the smug indulgence his triumph should have brought him. In fact, he looks as though he would like nothing better than to devour Laurent in a single flash of sharpened canines; to tear Damen’s throat open with his teeth, just to sit back and watch him bleed. 

With a dark surge of clarity and something akin to deranged amusement, Laurent places the emotion he sees seething deep within the Regent’s ice blue eyes. 

A black and all-consuming jealousy. 

And that is when Laurent realizes - the Regent has just showed his hand. 

All this time Laurent has thought himself the only one obsessed with beating the Regent at his own game. He’s been used, discarded, and humiliated by the much older man enough times that perhaps he might be forgiven for thinking so. But no. Damen was right when he said the Regent was obsessed with Laurent - enough to murder Nicaise in cold blood, enough to watch Laurent be fucked on the floor by the man who killed Auguste. Everything is suddenly cast in a new light, like a mist lifting: 

His horse, poisoned before the hunt so that Laurent might be felled by the boar, dying humiliated before Torveld, the man who had thought to be an ally to Laurent. The assassins in his room, armed not just with Akielon knives, but Akielon pleasure drugs, Laurent slated not only to be murdered, but raped and then murdered, ostensibly by Damen himself. 

That one in particular - the Regent must have laughed himself sick at the thought of Laurent, made weak and wanting by the too-familiar taste of that particular drug, taking the Prince Killer’s cock like a desperate whore, begging for it, and then coming down. The realization. Laurent might almost have welcomed his slit throat after that. 

And then there was Govart, put in charge of Laurent’s troops, his eyes sliding over Laurent’s body, his hands always coming just a little too close. Then Aimeric’s placement in among the soldiers, meant to seduce the men, or perhaps Laurent himself, and report back dutifully to the Regent. Like the good boy Laurent had tried to be, but never was. 

And of course, Damen. Damianos of Akielos, brought to him in chains to share his bed. 

It all reeked of desperation now. Desperation to see Laurent not just killed, but hurt. To watch him bleed and break, and finally, finally fold to Uncle’s will. 

But the Regent hasn’t won. Miraculously, impossibly. And now… now everything has changed. 

Laurent is back at court, but he is not alone as long as he has Damen by his side - and now his uncle has unwittingly made it so that he cannot take Damen away. The Regent has broken his own cardinal law: never let the enemy know your greatest weakness. Laurent still controls every border castle save Fortaine, and Nikandros’ forces have been accepted into Ravenel, thanks to Damen’s quick maneuvering. Laurent has lands and an army, with or without his uncle and the Council.

He has the King of Akielos at his side. 

And now, Laurent knows his uncle’s greatest weakness. 

Laurent, suddenly giddy, fights the bubbling, half-mad laughter rising in his chest, but the triumph shows in his eyes, and he knows the Regent sees it. 

Laurent doesn’t care. He can win. 

And he is going to.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow ok, so I did decide to write more of this. I am so shocked and honored to have had such a positive response to this story, and I still kindof can’t believe it. And I have so many questions for y’all, but I’ll ask them at the end. I really hope you like this continuation! 
> 
> Comments and critiques super welcome and appreciated!

“The proof has been given.” Councilor Jeurre announces to the room at large. His face is a mask of discomfort and there is a desperate edge to his words. “Has the Council convened on a verdict?” 

“Verdict?” Laurent hears himself say. “I wasn’t informed that this was an official trial. I would love to hear what the charges were.” 

“No, there… your Highness...“ Juerre flounders. 

“Rumors, merely,” Audin says placatingly. “As was discussed before, it was said you were shirking your duties, my Prince… And darker things.”

“Things I would not hear repeated again in this room.” Herode interrupts, his aging voice uncharacteristically forceful. “The Council has been shown no proof of such claims, and has yet to see any indication of their validity. But...” His face, lined and worn, twists. “Your loyalty was called into question, your Highness, simply because there were so many rumors... The majority of the Council agreed… that some form of action was required.” 

Laurent suppresses a jolt as Damen steps unexpectedly forward, glowering at the men on the dais. 

“And so you forced this farce upon your future King?” Damen’s voice, in flawless Veretian, slices through the hall with the violence of a sword strike. Laurent places a restraining hand on his bicep.

“Damen,” Laurent warns in a low voice, tightening his grip. Damen ignores him. 

“You would give slanderous rumor more credence than the word of your own Prince?” 

“Damen,” Laurent hisses. His eyes are trained on his uncle’s black, calculating expression. The Regent tilts his head to the side.

“The slave beds my nephew,” he muses. “And then thinks to speak for him before his Council. You’ll forgive me, gentlemen, if I find it difficult to believe that Vere is where my nephew’s loyalties truly lie. There must be a reason the slave feels comfortable speaking out of turn; that he should be so suddenly devoted, despite having been whipped to within an inch of his life by our rash young prince barely a season ago.” He looks right at Damen, then. “I cannot help but wonder what the Prince has promised you to bring about such a change of heart.” 

Laurent goes cold. 

Uncle cannot possibly be threatening to reveal Damen’s identity. Not now, not after coercing the Crown Prince of Vere into fucking the Akielon Prince Killer in front of the court. To admit he’d known all along and still commanded that of his Prince... they’d all three of them go down to the gallows together. He can’t be mad enough for that. Uncle is malicious, not suicidal. 

But then again, Laurent has never seen the Regent so... bloodthirsty. Outclassed and outmanned, Uncle has found himself in a position of complete impotence for the first time in Laurent’s life. Laurent has frankly no idea what he might do. 

It is terrifying. 

Beside him, Damen’s gaze is murderous. He holds his tongue this time, but Laurent can see the muscles standing out in his neck, corded with tension. Laurent places his palm against Damen’s spine, drawing him backward, a clear signal to stand down. Damen’s posture shifts stiffly from offensive to defensive, but his eyes lose none of their ire. Laurent steps forward and holds up one hand, casually, as though to take a bored sip from a goblet of wine. 

“Allow me a moment to clarify,” he drawls. “I am suspected of shirking my duties in favor of frivolous pursuits, although none of the rumors claiming I am doing so can be substantiated. I have also been accused of plotting, for unspecified reasons, against my own crown, despite a complete lack of motive or proof of any kind. Do I have it right?” Laurent narrows his eyes just a fraction as he slides his heavy gaze across the room. Chelaut, whose own loyalties Laurent has never been able to predict, looks from Uncle to Laurent and back again. 

“There were testimonies,” Chelaut says slowly. “Vaskian mountain men, and our own soldiers from Nesson-Elloy.” 

Juerre passes a hand over his mouth, his eyes troubled. “True.” 

“The mountain men smelled,” Audin whines, his pudgy nose wrinkling.

Chelaut nods thoughtfully. 

“But,” he says, “the constable of Nesson-Eloy was certain he saw the Prince and a large Akielon man running along the rooftops in the dark of night. He was rather adamant about the havoc wreaked upon the poor citizens of the town. He listed the damages.”

“A lot of flower pots,” Herode mutters, almost sardonic. Chelaut raises his hands in a helpless gesture. 

“The constable was sure it was the Prince.”

“The constable of Nesson-Eloy,” says Laurent, “wouldn’t know his prince from a three-copper whore in a lamplit bedroom. Let alone a moving target ten feet above his cavernous skull in the dead of night. I believe I’m owed a little more credit than that - at the very least, when I whore myself out, I do it for my Councilors and the good of the realm.” 

Every man on the dais flinches. Save one.

The Regent leans forward in his chair toward the vacillating councilmembers. 

“But if we are not to trust our own soldiers,” he says, all wise, reasonable concern. “Who are we to trust?” 

“Your own eyes, perhaps,” Laurent says mildly. He can feel Uncle’s gaze on him like fever. His palms itch. He pushes forward. 

“You have all seen with your own eyes what I have done. I have gone to the border to do my duty, and yet I am called irresponsible and untrustworthy. I have led a battalion to victory against a force many times its size, and yet I am called incapable of leadership. When I am gifted with a bedslave whom I do not bed, you are suspicious. Then I bed him, and you call my loyalty into question. You demand I fuck him on the floor at your feet to prove my loyalty, and when I do as you say, you claim it as proof that I am disloyal. 

“Forgive my ignorance, Councilors, but I don’t think it possible that I could have committed all of these crimes. I can’t seem to follow the logic. I’m sorry, Uncle,” Laurent turns his blue eyes on the Regent, wide and innocent, as fury boils like smoke in his lungs. “I suppose my mind simply isn’t built for such convoluted schemes, as yours is.” 

Uncle’s posture is casual in his chair, the throne draped in crimson silks and velvet. His eyes are dark and hooded, weary or bored. 

But his knuckles are white where they grip the arm of the throne. 

To Uncle’s left, Herode stares at Laurent, his pale eyes hard and intent. 

“As for myself,” Laurent continues at length, “I grow tired of this game. Apparently I am willful and unmanageable, despite the fact that I’ve done everything you asked. So if I’m to be willful and unmanageable, then let me put it to some use. I pose a simple question, and demand a simple answer: The rumors are either true, or they are not. I am either loyal to Vere, or I am not.” Laurent regards each member of the Council, one by one, their aging faces pale and drawn. “Choose,” he says. 

“You speak like a petulant child,” the Regent sighs. “You disgrace yourself before the court, and then wonder why your loyalty is questioned.” 

“Choose,” Laurent repeats. The word is like grit between his teeth. Herode brings a hand down hard on the arm of his chair.

“The Crown Prince,” he declares, “has been exonerated of the charges laid against him.” 

Guion makes a placating gesture, looking from one man to the next.

“But this was not a true trial,” he says. “Merely a disciplinary hearing to determine the necessity of a trial.” 

Laurent can see the pulse racing in the man’s neck. He feels drawn to it like a hound on the hunt, scenting blood. 

“And it has been determined,” Herode barks. “This Council has seen what it came here to see. The Crown Prince has done as was required of him, and all here bore witness. This hearing is at an end.”

“And your findings?” Laurent’s nerves are splintered kindling, but his voice is mild as the eye of a storm. 

“Loyal,” Audin chirrups from his seat. His hands flutter like birds in his lap. “You are cleared of suspicion, my Prince.”

“Barring proof of crime,” Guion interjects with a startling inability to read a room. 

“Yes,” Audin amends reluctantly. “Barring proof of crime, the Prince is declared innocent of all wrongdoing. We are adjourned.” 

This last is said all in a breath, the words tripping over themselves in their rush to escape. Laurent registers them dimly as another sign of his triumph, the scales tipping further in his favor. The Council is obviously disturbed by what they have seen here today, the Regent’s true capacity for bizarre cruelty made manifest before the court. 

Laurent can hardly wrap his mind around it:

Uncle has miscalculated again. Twice, and severely within the space of a fortnight. The weight of that fact, the breadth of its impact, leaves Laurent’s head spinning. 

Laurent is but a few short months from his majority. He is set to be crowned King in three seasons’ time, and Laurent has just won the sympathy of his Council to a degree which he has never known. This will force the Regent’s hand in ways Laurent has never even thought to consider.

A world of possibilities spirals out before him, more vast than he has any hope of fully comprehending. 

A world of possibilities, and every one of them a trap. He has Uncle cornered. But it is the cornered beast that is the most dangerous.

“Well...” The Regent pushes finally through teeth gritted in a thin smile. “It appears that apologies are in order. You are, quite obviously, fucking the slave… After a fashion. Forgive my initial skepticism, Nephew. I suppose I merely fail to see the appeal of being mounted by wild animals.” His mouth twists in sympathetic distaste. “It must be a difference of proclivities.” 

Eyes narrowing, Laurent takes a sinuous step forward. Uncle’s smile sharpens, then sours as Laurent moves not to confront him, but instead to lean insouciantly to the side, crowding into Damen’s space. 

“True,” Laurent says, placing a hand possessively over Damen’s heart. Splaying his fingers, he tucks his head into Damen’s shoulder, feeling surprise vibrate in the hard muscle there. All that power, so tightly controlled. Laurent allows himself a small, sharp tug on Damen’s shoulder, pulling himself flush against Damen’s side, the full swell of his thigh. “My tastes and yours can hardly be said to run parallel,” Laurent remarks mildly, almost amused. “I prefer my men... Well.” 

He shrugs, brushing one hand down Damen’s chest to the fluttering muscles of his stomach, and feels Damen suck in a breath. Laurent regards the tiny stool sitting vacant at the Regent’s knee, his eyelids lowering a fraction. 

“Breathing,” he drawls, smooth as a blade edge. 

Uncle’s smile thins further into a grim slash. He sighs, raising a hand to stroke his beard in a contemplative gesture. The wizened guardian, humoring the naivete of youth. 

“I’ll admit that I do not share your fixation with - how did you put it before? ‘Lying in the cloying sweat of men from Akielos?’ Or does that particular sensibility of yours not extend to slaves?”

“He is a slave no longer, if you’ll recall. And by the way, Uncle, as the recently exonerated Crown Prince of Vere, I accept your most gracious welcome back to my court.“ 

Audin, clearly panicked, blurts out overtop of whatever Uncle may have been about to say.

“Of course the Crown Prince is received with open arms!” 

“I can see that,” Laurent says a little shrilly. He feels like he is teetering on a knife edge, just shy of hysteria. “Such a pleasant surprise that so many in my court were so eager to witness my homecoming.” 

There is some uncomfortable shuffling from the boxes at that, the gathered courtiers reacting like spooked deer. The jittery urge to bolt. 

“Of course,” Uncle croons. “The people have missed their prince. Truth be told, Nephew, I believe I have missed you the most of anyone here. You have always been special to me. The late King, your father, was always so focused on your brother. None could blame him, of course, with a son as golden as Auguste - but I couldn’t help but find myself always fond of you. 

“Which is why your continued defiance has broken my heart as you have grown older. I have mourned you these long months we have been apart - the things I have heard about you, Laurent. What better welcome could I give my nephew than the chance to clear his name before one and all? 

“And now, despite your distaste for Veretian custom, you have come away the better for submitting to the Council’s justice. Really, Laurent,” he murmurs, a bit of personal advice among family. “Isn’t it always better when you submit?”

Laurent swallows thickly, going rigid. He stares at his uncle, starkly refusing to vomit.

Damen’s arm comes up as though to curl itself protectively around his smaller frame, but Laurent eyes the offending appendage with a subtle hostility, halting it just shy of touch.

“Veretian custom,” Laurent parrots. “Remind me, Uncle, of the last time a Prince of the blood was ordered to disrobe and discharge for the pleasure of an audience like a beast put out to stud?” 

“You overcomplicate things, Laurent. By your own admission, should not the slave be the stud in this analogy?” 

”I think we have all had quite enough of analogy.” Herode’s voice.

Laurent is having trouble staying upright. The Regent is still talking, always talking, and Laurent feels his stomach begin to rebel. His ears ring, and there is a stabbing pain behind his left eye. Uncle talks in circles, endless circles, never letting anything rest, always coming back to pick, pick, pick at his logic, pick at his body, pick at his mind. Like unraveling a tapestry. Like consuming a whole stuck pig, one delicate morsel at a time. 

Laurent is fairly sick of analogies, himself. 

“Won’t you embrace me, Nephew,” Uncle is saying. “And we can let all of this pass for now?” 

Uncle opens his arms, and Laurent tries not to let it show how heavily he leans on Damen as the nausea overtakes him. When he speaks, it sounds bewildered and repulsed to his own ears, but perhaps might be taken for sardonic by the crowd of Veretians. Laurent can hope. 

“I have had quite enough embracing for the time being, Uncle,” he says. Then a thought occurs to him. “Though I acknowledge the sentiment - you must be terribly lonely these days. But I urge you not to despair - there must be another young boy whose head you have not hacked off and had delivered to my doorstep, whose parents are still desperate enough to be willing to sell you their child. Though there was some motherly grumbling at Ravenel after your little display, so you may find that the price has gone up.

“Although, of course,” Laurent amends, lolling his head on Damen’s shoulder. “You have said you don’t favor slaves.” He runs a finger along Damen’s neck, over the hammering pulse conspicuously free of gold, down his arm to the bare skin of his right wrist. He looks the Regent square in the eye, raises a single golden eyebrow, and says, “You may have more trouble then. Pity.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok... so. A couple questions, if you feel like answering any or all of them. 
> 
> 1) Please let me know if you think I continued to handle this delicate subject matter with enough care. It’s extremely important to me that I do the characters justice, of course, but also (and perhaps more importantly) that I show respect to the actual people who may have experienced similar trauma. Please let me know if there was anything I could have handled better, or anything you may suggest I keep in mind for the future. 
> 
> 2) I changed the story summary. A lot. I don’t know that I really like it now. Thoughts?
> 
> 3) Any other thoughts??? Comments and critiques always welcome and appreciated!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Full disclosure, I have NO IDEA how I feel about this chapter. Part of me loves it, part of me hates it. I’m honestly so conflicted, but I’ve already rewritten the whole goddamn thing like four times, so I’m posting it, and we’ll see how it goes. 
> 
> Some of the dialogue I took from their tent conversation in Kings Rising. I really liked the parallels, the idea that I could take those same words with different context, and have their meaning change. All credit goes to Pacat and her amazing writing on those lines. 
> 
> Minor TRIGGER WARNING - nothing explicit, but Laurent does think about his abuse briefly.

The Regent is the first to leave, sweeping from the throne room in a swirl of billowing capes. The court and Council take this as the dismissal they are all so suddenly desperate for, and move as a herd to follow him out. There is some murmuring, some talk, but mostly silence as they go.

Laurent does not turn to look at any of them. His head aches, his back aches. His chest feels hollow, and yet heavy enough to bow his shoulders toward the floor. Like a great machine slowly running down its clockwork, he can feel himself reaching the crumbling edge of his endurance. Digging his nails into the palm of his hand hidden behind Damen’s back, Laurent fights to hold onto some semblance of composure.

He listens to the footsteps of the retreating courtiers - skittish, trying not to make noise as they pass their tight-lipped, tight-laced Prince. Perhaps as a kindness, perhaps a cruelty, the last guard to escape closes the doors after himself with a soft click. Damen and Laurent are alone.

Laurent pushes away from Damen and stands still before the dais for a long time. Staring at the plush crimson draping the vacant Veretian throne. Something jitters inside him, closely tied, held down in the pit of his stomach. He can feel Damen beside him, holding his breath, waiting for the explosion. Or the collapse.

Laurent steps forward once, twice. He feels rather than sees Damen’s startled reaction when he grabs a sudden fistful of material and wrenches. One end catches on a corner of the chair, and Laurent revels in the vicious sound of its tearing. The fabric comes free in his hands, pooling in swaths at his feet, dark and slippery as blood. It slips from his nerveless fingers as Laurent’s mind floods with memory.

It looks exactly as it always did. Oak, intricately carved, inset with the starburst symbol at its center.

Laurent’s father’s throne. Auguste’s throne. What should have been Auguste’s throne. Laurent stares and stares.

It is Laurent’s throne, now.

Warmth like the beginning of fever swells within him, swift and deadly as a sword strike. Laurent leans in, touches his fingertips to a carved armrest, hardly daring to breathe. He steps over the discarded fabric, crushing the delicate knap beneath a soft, polished boot.

He could be eleven years old again as he sits, holding his breath as though at any moment a servant may be by to gently shoo him off. It is intentionally overlarge, the seat wide enough to fit three men of Laurent’s stature abreast. And yet, Laurent can feel that it suits him. High-backed and ornate, somehow the throne no longer seems so vast. Laurent is not a small man; it is only standing next to Damen that he sometimes forgets that. And he sits in this throne now as though it were made for him. In a way, he supposes it was.

A place for kings and future kings. Good kings, just kings, poor kings, dying kings.

But no place for dead Crown Princes.

They make statues for dead princes, and tombs in the bowels of the palace. But not thrones. Not crowns. Not Kingships. Dead sons inherit nothing.

Auguste will never sit in this throne.

Damen is looking at him, broad chest rising and falling shallowly, breath coming quick and strained through tight lips, as though his heart were crowding out his lungs.

Laurent regards him over the tops of his fingers, steepled before his face. His back aches, but he holds himself rigid in the chair, elbows resting on his thighs. Neither of them speaks.

Dead sons.

Laurent’s face falls slowly into his hands. He pushes his palms into his eye sockets, and for a moment he simply breathes. A terrible, shuddering sound. Then, like an inevitability, like a collapse, he says,

”They didn’t even mention Aimeric.”

They are the first words either of them has spoken to the other in - minutes? Mere minutes? - since Laurent’s fractured cry of Damen’s name, swallowed in a kiss as they came for an audience. He didn’t mean to say them, but now that they’re out, they consume him. The depth and breadth of his failure.

Aimeric and Nicaise, and all the boys before. Dead sons.

Laurent stood by and watched as the Regent devoured them all, their innocence, their humanity. Their futures. Had he begrudged them, was that why? Was he jealous, as Nicaise once said, of the boys who had replaced him in his rapist’s bed? Younger and sweeter than Laurent, more gullible, more eager to please. They had been at his uncle’s mercy, and he had done nothing.

Had he hated them, then? Aimeric, Nicaise.

Was that why he killed them?

Laurent’s breathing comes in ragged gasps, too loud, drowning out the sound of Damen’s approach. But suddenly Damen’s hands are on him, grasping at Laurent’s shoulders to still his shaking. Laurent jerks violently, slapping Damen away and curling in on himself, a smaller target, a tight ball of hatred.

“Don’t touch me!” He snarls, making Damen jump. “Do not think just because I let you fuck me, that you may put your hands on me whenever you like!”

“Laurent—“

“Despite all evidence to the contrary, I am not your personal cocksleeve to be used at your leisure and discarded.”

His body feels as though it is on fire, the searing panic a physical pain in his bloodstream. Every nerve is alight with it.

There is a long pause before finally Damen nods, stepping back. He turns to walk away, toward the door. The air freezes in Laurent’s lungs.

“W…Stop,” he rasps stupidly, face flushed. His heartbeat reaching a crescendo in his chest. “I don’t— You can’t—“

“I’m not going anywhere,” Damen says calmly. “I’m merely giving you space. If you need the room, I'll watch the door.”

It takes a moment for the words to sink in.

Damen isn’t leaving him. Damen still isn’t leaving him.

Why?

Laurent deflates, the rush of adrenaline taking the last of his energy. For a long while, neither of them moves or speaks. They are both simply waiting Laurent out, waiting for the cogs and gears of his mind to stop spinning uselessly in panic.

Laurent is often angry. Sometimes the anger is cold, sometimes hot and all-consuming. On its own, it can be managed, but it rarely rears its ugly head alone.

Fear is something Laurent is used to, something he’s lived with like a lover for the past seven years, from the moment Auguste died. Fear doesn’t get in his way much anymore.

But guilt.

Guilt and fear go hand-in-hand, guilt and anger moreso. They lock up his brain, taking over every thought until all that is left is action. He went to Charcy. He had Damen whipped. He pushed Aimeric over the edge.

And Nicaise?

Nicaise, he just… left out. Forgot about him in the madness of trying to outmaneuver Uncle’s plans. Aimeric, at least, had gotten him angry. Aimeric had scared him out of his mind, made him feel a guilt he hadn’t thought could possibly run so deep. Until the next morning, when Laurent found that it could, in fact, run deeper.

Laurent let Uncle get to Aimeric, then left him alone with a lie for seven years. If Laurent had been sweeter, cried less, tried harder to be good… he could have been just like Aimeric. Delusional, easy. Blind with anger, brittle with love, and just as likely to break with it. When Laurent lashed out, he did it with the pain of the truth. And the brittle boy shattered.

But Nicaise… He has no excuse for Nicaise.

“Laurent.” Damen’s soft voice breaks Laurent out of his reverie. Laurent shakes his head slowly, his eyes closed.

“Not one of them brought him up.”

“I know.”

“Not even Guion.”

“I know.”

Laurent bows his head.

A warm hand, rough with sword callouses, comes to rest gently on Laurent’s shoulder. This time he does not flinch.

“There was nothing to be gained,” Damen reasons softly. “Aimeric had betrayed you. He’d sided with Touars’ army. And since Guion has changed his story to that lie about running off to warn the Council —.”

“Guion wrote Aimeric off as collateral,” Laurent cuts in. “I am aware.”

“There was nothing your uncle stood to gain from Aimeric’s death besides more fuel for your own argument.” Damen’s other hand brushes down the length of Laurent’s arm, to his knee. Laurent finds himself focusing on the weight of that hand through the fine silk of his trousers, an unexpected anchor. “His life was forfeit. He was a stalemate.”

“He was his son!” Laurent stares at Damen. “He was his son, and Guion abandoned his memory to that of a nameless traitor! He let my uncle wheedle his way between his child’s thighs in exchange for a spot on the Council.” Laurent’s head falls into his hands, fingers curling. “Then left him for dead in the middle of a battlefield at the first sign that the tide might turn. His own son.” Laurent stares at the floor. “Guion is worse than my uncle.”

Damen opens his mouth to speak, then closes it. Laurent’s face hardens.

“No,” Laurent says. “Not quite worse.”

“They are of the same breed,” Damen murmurs. He sounds as though even the words taste foul on his tongue. Laurent feels himself go grey, his voice thin.

“No,” he says. “No, they’re really not. You can’t know... you have no idea.”

Laurent’s tongue feels thick in his mouth, and dry, near to choking.

How can he explain? How can he possibly make a man like Damen understand? Even if he were to tell him, Damen is too good, too naive. Even if Laurent were to spill every gory detail, Damen couldn’t know. He would just look at Laurent like a kicked pup, and then probably try to hold him, as though _touch_ , of all things, could possibly make this… this, Laurent’s childhood, Laurent’s life, any less of what it is.

But… Damen is good. He might not understand, but of all people, Damen might not blame Laurent for… those choices he made, the mistakes of a lonely child. Too young to know any better, too weak to protect himself. Too afraid and ashamed to ever speak a word of it.

Laurent has to tell him.

Now, he has to tell him now. He can’t... say why, he can’t think. But suddenly, Laurent’s lips are straining to form the words, every instinct screaming simultaneously: ‘Tell him. Don’t tell him.’ 

Laurent tries and fails to swallow in a dry throat.

No. Yes. Shit.

“Damen...” The word is barely a whisper, and he knows his face must be perfectly white. “Damen, I... I have to tell you something.”

Damen clenches his fists, looking down at the floor. His brow furrows as though in pain.

“Wait,” he mumbles.

Laurent blinks, brought up short. “What?”

“Laurent, I…” Damen struggles with his voice. “I can’t.”

Laurent’s blood goes to ice in his veins. He feels unsteady, like he might topple over, even seated as he is.

“You can’t?” Laurent asks, the words crystalizing in his throat. “Can’t what?” If Damen knows… if he’s known all along, if he knew at Ravenel… If he knew at Ravenel, what does that mean? Was it fake, was it all fake, a trick, more of Uncle’s plans, was it—

“I can’t let you give me another truth,” Damen says, anguished. “Not before...”

It clicks then. Oh.

Slowly, Laurent sits up, masking his expression as best he can, which he can’t imagine is very well at all. He takes a deep breath, steadying himself. It is a monumental task.

“Damen...”

But Damen cuts him off, his voice hoarse.

“I have to tell you something first,” he says. “I should have told you weeks ago, months, before... before Ravenel. I am so sorry. Laurent, I am so sorry. I cannot keep this from you any longer, I can’t do this to you, not after... I should have...”

Laurent says, “Damen.”

“You deserve so much better, and I can never hope to repay you for the secrets I have kept from you, the lies I have told... The wrongs I have done you.” He is pacing now. Laurent almost smiles. He might if he didn’t feel so suddenly ill.

“Damen.”

He watches Damen square his shoulders, steel himself for what is to come.

“Laurent…” he says. “I wish… Shit, I wish I had told you, I wish I… that I’d…” He swallows. “Laurent. I need to tell you who I am.”

Laurent breathes in through his nose, closes his eyes. He is so tired.

“I know who you are, Damianos.”

There is a short, stunned silence. Then Damen says, “What?”

“I know who you are. I have known. I knew in the palace when they brought you in front of me. I knew in the baths. I knew…” Laurent digs his thumbs into his temples, obscuring the guilt in his eyes with his palms. “When I ordered you whipped. I knew—“

“At Ravenel?”

Laurent stills. His next words are nearly a murmur. “Yes. I knew at Ravenel.”

“But... if you knew, how could you—“

“Let you fuck me?” He says it quietly. Damen flinches. “That is the question, isn’t it.”

Damen’s chest is heaving. Laurent is barely breathing at all.

“And what,” Damen asks shakily, at length. “Is the answer?”

“Fairly obvious, I expect.”

Damen shakes his head helplessly. “I don’t understand.”

Laurent looks up at him, all disheveled curls and dark eyes, and the image swims.

“Shall I tell you of the man who gave me good counsel? Who never lied to me?”

“But I did. Laurent, I did lie to you.” His expression contorts with a terrible self hatred. “I led you to believe that I was… not myself. That I was not the man who…”

Laurent regards him steadily for a moment.

“That you were not the man who killed Auguste.”

Damen makes a wounded sound. Laurent thinks he nearly staggers with the weight of it, his truth revealed. His own guilt.

“I am sorry,” Damen whispers. It is a broken sound. Laurent closes his eyes.

Something vital, heavy and inevitable, breaks loose from somewhere deep inside him. He can’t say what it is. Forgiveness? Does he forgive Damen for what he did?

Laurent watches Damen squirm under his gaze as though skewered. 

No, Laurent thinks, he doesn’t forgive him. Not entirely. Laurent wonders if there will not always be a part of himself that cannot forgive the death of his childhood, his innocence, along with his brother. It wasn’t Damen’s fault. In so many ways, it was never Damen’s fault. But Damen was the instrument - Damen swung the sword.

Damianos of Akielos, Prince Killer. The man in his bed. The man who stole Laurent’s life from him. The man who gave him his life again. Does love make forgiveness unnecessary? Love doesn’t right all wrongs. Love doesn’t bring back the dead.

But it brings back the living.

Love, Laurent thinks. How ironic.

“I made my choice,” Laurent whispers, almost to himself. “At Ravenel.”

Slowly, Damen raises his eyes from the floor to meet Laurent’s. The hope in his gaze is painful, overwhelming. 

“Damianos,” Laurent says, and it is like impaling himself on the truth. All of his guilt, all of his anger, his vow to see the Prince Killer dead, his promise to Auguste, and his apology… Laurent pushes himself through the word that will make him a traitor to his brother, a traitor to his own grief, seven years in the making. “Damianos.” 

Damen visibly loses his breath. 

“Laurent,” he whipsers. “I...” His expression awed, Damen lunges for Laurent and wraps him suddenly in a tight embrace. Laurent makes a shocked sound, the breath rushing from his lungs from the impact. He tenses. It’s reflex. Damen lets him go.

He stares into Laurent’s wide, surprised eyes for a moment, apologetic and searching. Laurent’s face flushes slowly. He exhales. Blinks.

Would it be so terrible to have one more day to pretend? One more day to have Damen look at him like this - like he is something valuable and precious. Not an innocent, but at least a man, whole and unsullied by the Regent’s filthy obsession. 

Tell him. Don’t tell him. 

Tell him. Not now. One last night. 

Every night always seems to be their last, somehow. 

“I want you,” Laurent says.

Damen’s expression changes, becomes troubled. Laurent’s heart aches.

“You cannot mean that,” Damen says softly, cupping Laurent’s face in his hand. It is massive, and warm. Laurent leans into it, touches Damen’s knuckles with his fingertips.

“I want something,” he says, “that has nothing to do with my uncle. Or the Council. I just…” He grabs Damen’s face in his hands, tilting it so their foreheads are resting against one another. “I want you for myself. I need... this. Just like this. You. For no other reason than that I want you.”

He stops, flushing. The ache in his chest is growing sharper. The shame of fearing rejection from the man who killed his brother. The man he kept as a slave. The man he has no right to want, dramatically less right to have.

”Are you sure...?” Damen’s voice is gentle, a little concerned. Laurent breathes in and out.

”Yes.” 

“I don’t…” Damen begins, but Laurent cuts him off.

“I made my choice,” he repeats, more forcefully this time. Then, quieter. “Yes.”

This time, Damen approaches him slowly. He runs his fingertips along Laurent’s cheekbone, almost too light for sensation, then back further into Laurent’s hair. Laurent shudders, just slightly. Damen leans forward. The kiss is like a gift. Soft, open, barely a suggestion of itself. Damen’s lips ghost along his own, back and forth, just grazing touch. It tingles.

Laurent opens his mouth, leaning into it. Tentative. Unsure. Damen pulls back to watch Laurent’s expression for a long moment. Then he tilts his head, obliging Laurent’s request for the deeper angle. His curls brush against Laurent’s cheek like a caress. Damen runs his tongue along the rim of Laurent’s mouth, hot and wet, light enough to tickle. Laurent gasps, nearly inaudible, but he knows Damen can feel it. They are sharing the same breath. Barely touching, yet impossibly close.

Damen breaks away suddenly, pressing his forehead to Laurent’s chest.

“I thought you couldn’t…” he says. “I thought you’d never...” Laurent strokes Damen’s hair just above his ear.

“Damen,” he murmurs. Damen looks up at him.

“You knew. You knew who I was the night we made love.”

Flushing slightly, Laurent says again, firmer this time, “Damen.”

“You weren’t making love to a slave,” Damen says, his eyes wide with awe. “You were making love to me.”

Laurent levels a long look at him. Then, softly, “Yes.”

Damen blinks spastically, laughing, then his face falls. “I should have told you. I should have told you then, before...”

“I knew all along, so what difference does it make?”

Damen takes his hand, holding it tightly.

“It makes every difference. Laurent, I... the way I feel about you-“

Laurent puts his hand up, wrenching himself from Damen’s grasp.

“Stop.” He looks up at Damen meaningfully. “Damianos.”

There is a moment of confusion before Damen’s expression congeals. “I have to return to Akielos,” he murmurs, as though he had possibly forgotten. His voice is utterly torn.

“Yes.”

Damen reaches for his hand again, tentative.

“How can I leave you here?”

Laurent merely shakes his head. Damen opens his mouth to argue further, but Laurent takes the opportunity to lurch forward and press his lips against Damen’s, a tongue slipping carefully inside. Damen makes a short, startled sound, then a frustrated one of surrender.

“Don’t think,” Laurent whispers.

“We shouldn’t…” Damen murmurs, though he is now nosing along the underside of Laurent’s chin, breathing in the smell of his throat. His fingers tangle in the laces of Laurent’s collar, not pulling, just a declaration of want. “You can’t… be alright with this.” Damen leans back, looking as though it costs him. Laurent stares at him in confusion. “You can’t want this right now. Not after what we… what you…”

“Why,” Laurent begins, and then stops. Of course. ‘Why would you think I might not want this?’ Because Damen deals in broad truths. Even ignorant as he is of the Regent’s sick history with Laurent, Damen understands well enough that something is wrong. He sees the deeper secrets without wasting time on the details ‘why’ and ‘how.’ Damen is honest, not stupid. He doesn’t understand anything, and yet Laurent has never felt more understood in his life.

Even Auguste… with Auguste, Laurent was just a child. A blank slate, trailing around after him, following in his brother’s footsteps. Laurent remembers the brilliant gleam of his brother’s smile, bright as the sun, and as painful in memory. Auguste understood him. No one ever understood him better, before or since. Until Damen.

Damen sees Laurent now as a man. Twisty and snarled, frigid as a winter lake, brittle and prone to cracking. Yet even so, he wants to share in Laurent’s complexities. For some reason unknown to Laurent, the King of Akielos is in love with him.

Auguste, forgive him. He is in love with the King of Akielos.

“I want you,” Damen whispers, as though reading his mind. “But I do not want to hurt you.”

“You won’t,” Laurent says. And kisses him again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew, ok... so. 
> 
> What did you think? And yes, I do plan to have them get fairly intimate in this next chapter. I’m really curious as to how you folks feel about that. I argued the point with myself, whether or not Laurent would want to get intimate after what just happened, and although this felt natural while I was writing it, I want to know how it felt while you were reading it. 
> 
> As always, PLEASE let me know if you feel that I handled the subject matter with enough delicacy and care. It is of upmost importance to me to be respectful of these characters, but especially of the real people who actually have experienced similar trauma. Please let me know if I have continued to accomplish that goal, or if there is anything you would suggest I consider changing in order to meet that goal more fully. 
> 
> Comments and critiques always welcome. 
> 
> Thank you!

**Author's Note:**

> WHAT DID YOU THINK?!?! I almost didn’t post this because of the subject matter, but I ultimately decided that I was proud of the dialogue, and even the... other events. But PLEASE, tell me if you think I handled this subject matter with enough delicacy and care. Thank you!


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